The Curtain Rises
by 3seconds
Summary: A series of missing scenes showing what inspired the scenario that unfolded inside Sherlock's mind palace in The Abominable Bride. A ghost... a book... biscuits... a kiss... and a phone call...
1. A Woman of Rare Perception

**Author's Note:** This is a series of missing scenes explaining what inspired the scenario that unfolded inside Sherlock's mind palace in The Abominable Bride. Each chapter is a scene that takes place sometime during His Last Vow and includes at least one line of dialog from TAB, although not necessarily said by the same character(s) or in the same context. I'll try to keep the chapters in chronological order. You may recognize Chapter 2, _Poetry or Truth_ , since I published it as a stand-alone before I knew for sure if I wanted to write more to accompany it. I'm including it again here to keep everything together in one place. I think there will be four or five in all, but I may add more on if something else (like watching the special for the umteenth time) inspires me.

 **Summary:** While he's in hospital, recovering after revealing Mary's past and the Watson's resulting domestic, Sherlock enlists a ghost from his past in hopes of gaining insight on Charles Magnusen.

* * *

Swimming on the edge of consciousness, not quite asleep, he's unsure which sensation finally brings him fully awake.

Possibly it's her perfume, distinctively hers, and immediately recognizable. Possibly it's the dip in the edge of the thin hospital mattress as she sits next to him. Possibly it's the way she runs her fingers slowly up the inside of his thigh, brushing his nether region through the blanket, and finally working her way over his abdomen to the wound on his chest.

She presses her fingertips around the edges of the bandage, producing an interesting sensation, pressure, not pleasure and not quite pain. She's humming a familiar melody, a Christmas carol he always associates with her.

"Oh, hello there." she says with a wry smile as he opens his eyes. "You recognize our song, dear?"

He blinks at the dimly lit room and tries to clear his thoughts. Everything feels surreal. He's groggier than sleep alone should account for, but he can't suss out why. He's slow, off guard. It's familiar, pleasant, and more than a bit not good.

She looks different than the last time he saw her. Her wavy brunette tresses and elaborate up-do have been replaced with a short sandy blonde bob. It doesn't suit her. Her eyes though, always large and expressive, and her lips, still blood red, haven't changed.

Her clothing is different than how he normally pictures her as well. It would be after all, she's usually naked when he thinks of her. Now, she's wearing a dangerously snug jumper, a distraction of riotous color, under a white lab coat. Something she said once about disguises floats just outside his mind's grasp.

"Oh, this..." she gestures down at her attire as if she's read his thoughts, "It's dreadful, but I know what you like."

She gives him a sad-eyed smile as he tries once again to shake off the fog that envelopes his brain and threatens to pull him back under. After a moment, he gives up and lets his eyes drop closed.

From somewhere far off, he hears her say "Oh dear, no, no, no..." and feels her body press against him, leaning across his torso. A stab of pain, from the ribs the paramedics cracked in the process of restarting his heart, jolts him back into consciousness and he realizes she's just turned down his morphine pump.

She straightens, pulling away from him and he immediately misses the heat of her body on his.

"Ah, that's better. Good boy. You can't go back to sleep yet. You haven't told me why I'm here."

"What do you know about him?" he asks, realizing as he says it that he's jumping ahead and adds "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"The media mogul?" Her brow crinkles, "Tell me that's not why I snuck into a critical care unit in the middle of the night?"

"No." he replies, feeling a bit more like himself, "You snuck in here to see for yourself whether I'm dying. Again. Sentiment."

She narrows her eyes, standing to leave. "You called me, remember?"

"Yes, weeks ago."

His hand darts from beneath the blanket to grasp her wrist. It has the desired effect of drawing her back and the unintentional effect of sending a tingle up his arm.

He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, there's business to attend to.

"I want to know what he likes." he says carefully, "His... pressure points."

"Pressure points?" she laughs without humor, "where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?"

She's trying for nonchalance, but the way she casts her eyes away from his gives her away. He waits, knowing she's deciding what and how much to tell him.

Instead, she changes topics completely, "So, Dr. Watson got married. That must've been a blow. But I suppose that pretty little Irish liar used her big mouth to take your mind off things. Seven times a night, my my."

She pats his chest and he gives her a warning look which she completely ignores.

"You know, for someone who claims romantic entanglements aren't his department, you've had an awful lot of them buzzing about you lately. So many brides. John's newly beloved, a real pistol, that one! Your little lab mouse has got herself engaged. And, of course, your own fiancée..."

She pauses for effect, the word 'fiancée' dripping with sarcasm, before continuing, "A little...premature, wasn't it? Or was it, oh... what do they call it in the States?" she laughs, "A shotgun wedding?"

"That was for a case." he growls. He's gone from slightly irritated to completely annoyed, but in his current state there's little to nothing he can do about it save giving her an angry glare.

"I thought I was the woman in your life Sherlock." she says with a disappointed pout, but there's only the tiniest hint of hurt or jealously in it. Mostly she just looks amused.

He rolls his eyes, "For God's sake, Irene!"

He knows what she's doing, deflecting, baiting him, trying to distract him, derail the original question. He's fairly well versed in the technique. Yet it still works. Two things tug at the edge of his mind. Even with the lower level of pain killers, he can't quite pull one to the forefront, so he focuses on the other. Why is she keeping tabs on Molly?

"Why would I care about Molly Hooper's dull boyfriend?" He begins to ask before he can stop himself, then hides it by trying to sound bored, like always, pretending not to care. To act like he's not even aware that Molly broke things off with...Tim? Tom?

"You should, you know." she scolds "She's a woman of rare perception, not that you see her that way. I think she'd have to grow a mustache just to attract your interest." she chuckles.

He has a sudden vision of Molly Hooper outfitted as a man, then in a wedding gown, but still sporting a mustache. Its utterly absurd. And oddly...attractive? He shakes his head, curls his lip slightly, disgusted that he's allowed himself to be dragged down this particular rabbit hole.

"Magnussen." He growls, watching the woman's reaction closely. She tries to mask it, but he sees the fear in her eyes.

"He never indulged in my services." She tries yet again to dodge the question, but with less success this time.

"Even so, you know what he likes..." he leads.

She hesitates, but only for a moment. "Pain. Humiliation. Other people's." She lowers her eyes, blocking something she doesn't want to share with him.

"I know all that already. What else?"

"Nothing." she answers a bit too quickly, "...he brokers in secrets and scandals, but doesn't have any of his own. Scratch the surface, there's just more of the same underneath."

He waits for her to say more, but she seems content to let the silence hang between them for a moment.

"Well, now. Time to go." She says as she eases up off the mattress.

Only when she pulls her arm from his grasp does he become aware he's been holding her wrist the whole time. She gives him a bittersweet smile, smoothes her hands down the front of her lab coat and adds, "Don't underestimate him. He's more clever than he seems."

She leans in and brushes his cheekbone ever so lightly with her lips. Less a kiss than a whisper. He closes his eyes, savoring the scent of her perfume over the antiseptic odors of the hospital.

When he opens his eyes again she's gone. John is standing over him instead. He sets a paper coffee cup on the tray and leans down to peer at Sherlock, frowning with concern. "Good God, Sherlock. Are you alright? Bad dream? You're pale as a sheet and you look like you've seen a ghost."

A ghost? Ridiculous! There are no ghosts. But he registers the irony of the fact that he's just seen a woman who is legally dead.

Was he dreaming? He's not entirely sure. It certainly felt real. Never the less, its best for John to think it was just a dream.

"A dream, yes... the ghost of Christmas past." he murmurs.

"What?" John gives him a puzzled look. "What's that about Christmas?"

Only after John asks, does Sherlock realize he associates the woman with Christmas. Strange.

Then his mind jumps tracks and seizes the opportunity in what he's inadvertently said. Christmas. Christmas, indeed! John loves Christmas. It'll be perfect timing. Now all he has to do is arrange it...

"Christmas dinner..." he replies, striving to sound normal, cheerful even, "...at my parents', Will you come?"

John smiles and shakes his head with his usual confused acceptance of his friend's oddities. "You don't even like Christmas. Go back to sleep. Sherlock."

* * *

 **Author's Note:** If you haven't seen it yet, it's well worth googling lovely Louise Brealey's photo of "when makeup and costume tests collide." It's the inspiration for the way Sherlock pictures Molly in his head in this piece, and it's hilarious! (Thank you Loo for providing the muse, and thank you JolieBlack for suggesting I let everyone in on the joke. :)


	2. Poetry or Truth

**Summary:** Four days into his week-long incarceration after shooting Charles Magnussen, Sherlock receives a visitor. Lestrade is not the person he expects, nor the one he hopes to see, but might be exactly who he needs all the same. (My idea of how the Ricoletti case got "lodged in Sherlock's hard drive".)

* * *

When the guard tells him he has a visitor, he hopes for John, but expects Mycroft. Instead, its Lestrade who looks up at Sherlock as he's led into the small visitation room.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock growls. It won't do to let on that he's actually grateful for the distraction and the company. "This is certainly not your division, Detective Inspector. Besides, there's nothing to investigate. There were no less than half a dozen witnesses and I've confessed to the crime. Please tell me you're not here to take a video for Donovan's amusement?"

He gestures down at his ill-fitting government issued garb as he takes a seat across the table.

"I might just. What I find odd is that you would confess to shooting a man who clearly committed suicide." Lestrade responds calmly, ignoring Sherlock's raised brows.

He pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out and offers it to Sherlock, before fishing out another and reaching back into his pocket for a lighter.

"But that's not why I'm here." he continues, holding the lighter out so Sherlock can coax his cigarette to life.

The room is momentarily quiet as both men smoke.

Sherlock breaks the silence, "You spoke to John."

Lestrade smiles, "Yeah, of course. Mary made me promise to check on you."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch, almost returning the smile before he catches himself.

Instead, he says, "It doesn't explain why they let you in to see me. Isn't solitary confinement supposed to be...solitary?"

"Someone with a bit of influence owed me a favor." Lestrade shrugs.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but doesn't press him on it.

Lestrade reaches back into his pocket, this time pulling out a small book. He runs his hand over the cover then lays it down and pushes it across the table. It's at least a hundred years old judging by the worn binding and the fading on the cover.

"What's this?" Sherlock asks, careful not to let his gaze or his voice betray his interest. His fingers twitch beneath the table, longing to reach out and flip through the yellowed pages. He's been alone for days with nothing but his mind palace for distraction. At this point, even an old book is exciting.

"It's a gift." Lestrade explains. "Belonged to my great grandfather."

Sherlock's brow furls for an instant. Try as he might to seem disinterested, he can't help himself.

He hears himself say, "Go on" then manages a modicum of self-control, disguising his curiosity with a long drag off his cigarette and his best 'boring, but I'll humor you' look.

"Great-Granddad worked for Scotland Yard back in the day. One of the first detectives..." Lestrade explains with more than a small amount of pride.

"This bloke took a professional interest in how they tracked down criminals. They didn't call it 'forensics' back then, but that's what he was mostly interested in - the scientific stuff. He interviewed anybody at the Met who'd give him the time of day...pestered them all terribly." He gives a wry smile, but hurries on when Sherlock only narrows his eyes in response.

"Well anyway, my great grandfather took a liking to the guy, so he tried his best to help him out...talked to him about different cases and let him question witnesses and the like. Apparently, the unsolved ones were of particular interest. He wrote 'em up like short stories, making up characters who investigated and solved the crimes. Even used Granddad as a character in a few."

Sherlock reaches out, gently flipping the book open with one finger, eyes scanning the page it falls open to. "...face white as death, mouth like a crimson wound," he reads aloud, scoffing.

"This is a ghost story, Lestrade! It's poetry, not truth!" He adds with as much disdain as he can muster, despite the page having piqued his interest.

Lestrade leans forward to peer upside down at the title on the top of the open page. "Yeah, that one's a bit different, truly unsolved. Seems no one could come up with a solution, not even a fictional one. Scared the bejeezus out of most everyone at the Yard when it happened. But it was a real case, I can assure you. They all were. I looked 'em up."

Sherlock pulls his gaze away from the page for just an instant, "Why give this to me? Surely it's a family heirloom or something?"

"Nah, the guy wasn't very successful as a writer. I think Great Granddad was the only one who bought the book...bought up half the print run since he was so enamored with being mentioned in it. Everyone in my family has at least a few copies." he says with a small chuckle.

There's a tap on the door and the guard calls out from the hallway, "Time's up, sir."

Lestrade reaches out and flips the book closed, pushing it toward Sherlock. "The guy was also a doctor, a better one than he was a story teller, apparently. Still, I think you'll find it entertaining."

He grinds out his cigarette then continues, "Listen Sherlock, if there's ever anything I can do, anything you need...well, you know where to find me, yeah?"

Lestrade scrapes his chair back, stands and strides to the door. He gives it a brisk wrap and steps back to allow the guard to swing it open.

Sherlock blinks, his eyes fixed on the book. A couple of memories float back to him. One of being given a tie pin for solving a case. It was a particularly hollow token since he never wears ties. Even so, John chastised him for pointing out that clearly obvious fact. "Just say thank you," his friend whispered. Another memory is of Lestrade presenting him with a deerstalker in a blatant attempt to publicly embarrass him.

Sherlock reaches out, wrapping his hand around the small volume. There's nothing hollow or humiliating about this gift.

He swallows back the lump that's formed in his throat, silently cursing Lestrade. How can he keep up his armor when sentiment keeps creeping in around all the edges?

He manages to tear his eyes away from the book, although he still can't look toward the door, which the guard now holds open. Lestrade steps into the hallway.

"Thank you, Greg." he says quietly as Lestrade walks away.

* * *

 **Author's note:** In no way do I mean for this fic to disparage the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyal, but obviously he can't exist as a literary legend in the BBC Sherlock universe, so this is just my solution to the problem. ...and Lestrade's line about "pestering everyone at the Met" is just meant to be him taking a little dig at Sherlock. :)


	3. A Distressing Trend

**Summary:** Sherlock hasn't been back to Baker Street since Christmas. When Mycroft tells Mrs. Hudson why, she lets him know her thoughts on the matter in no uncertain terms. Meanwhile, Sherlock waits in Mycroft's office with a bit too much time on his hands. Set just a few hours before Sherlock's four minute exile.

* * *

It's almost New Years Day and worry is eating away at Martha Hudson. Neither of her boys have been home in nearly a week. It's not unusual for Sherlock to disappear for days at a time, then turn back up with no more explanation than "Working", but it's very unlike John. Of course, John has been very unlike himself since moving back to 221B after his horrible row with Mary.

She still doesn't know the details, only that Mary betrayed his trust in some terrible way that John is very angry about. She also knows that Sherlock has been in contact with Mary often, even while recovering in hospital, so Sherlock doesn't think whatever Mary did was as awful as John does. But Sherlock isn't always the best judge of what's awful.

Martha is in the midst of boxing up the fairy lights and other Christmas bric-a-brac from her mantle piece when she hears footsteps on the stairs, followed by a series of bumps over her kitchen, which is directly beneath Sherlock's bedroom.

He's home. Relief washes through her. She listens carefully for voices or footfalls ascending the stairs to John's bedroom, but hears none. So, just Sherlock then. Maybe that's good. Maybe the Watsons reconciled over the holiday. She certainly hopes so.

She can hear Sherlock moving around upstairs as she puts the kettle on. When the tea is ready, she arranges several biscuits (fresh baked yesterday in the hopes the boys would be home to enjoy them) on a tray along with the rest of the tea things and makes her way up the stairs to welcome him back.

"Hello dear, I made those biscuits you like. I do wish you'd let me know when you're going to be away for so long." She says as she rounds the corner into the kitchen with the tea tray.

When he doesn't reply, she turns towards the figure who has appeared in the hallway and is startled to find its neither Sherlock nor John.

"Oh! Mycroft. Sorry. I didn't know you were here too. I'll just get a second cup." she says, setting the tray on the table and starting toward the cupboard.

"No need Mrs. Hudson. My brother is still absent and I've all but completed my task here." he replies in his typical efficient manner, but she detects a hint of sadness underneath that prompts her to stop and really look at him.

Her eyes immediately fall on the suitcase he's holding. The worry she felt earlier returns with a whoosh.

"Well then, when will Sherlock be back?" she asks, with as much false cheer as she can muster. She fears she already knows the answer.

Mycroft sighs heavily and sets the suitcase on the floor beside where he stands. He steps into the kitchen and pulls out a chair for her, then takes the one opposite, brushing a bit of lint off his coat as he does so.

"I suppose I shall have to tell you eventually in any event," he says, "Have a seat, if you please..."

* * *

"Your brother will join you in a few minutes."

Mycroft's assistant holds the door to his office open and gestures to a chair as Sherlock enters the room.

It's the first time in a week he's worn his own clothing, which has improved his mood considerably. What's more, his coat lays neatly folded on Mycroft's otherwise meticulously arranged desk. He hasn't seen the coat since he was forced to remove it upon his arrest at Appledore. He glances appreciatively at Anthea (it's not her real name, but it's what John calls her, so it sort of stuck in his hard drive as such) acknowledging her effort to return the coat to him. She gives him a small sad smile as she leaves the room.

He lifts the coat off the desk, shakes the folds out in one smooth, swift motion and shrugs it on, enjoying how the weight of it falls against his shoulders. He plunges his hands into the pockets and runs his fingers down the seam in the left one, searching. Smug satisfaction surges through him upon finding that the small section of hand stitching there has gone undetected.

He's careful not to eye the door or the security cameras as he worries at the stitching with his fingers. Instead, he sinks sullenly into a chair and stares straight ahead trusting the coat to hide the minute movement of his fingers within.

What's contained in the tiny packet sewn into the pocket lining isn't potent enough for what he ultimately has planned, but it will make the next few hours more tolerable, at least. An unexpected treasure.

The air con kicks on with a whoosh a moment later, giving him the perfect opportunity. He sneezes at the sudden air movement, then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, momentarily burying his face into it and sniffing deeply as if another sneeze threatens, but doesn't materialize.

After wiping his nose rather more than necessary, he folds the handkerchief back into his pocket. Normally, he prefers to inject his chemicals, but needs must...

A second later, the door swings open and Mycroft strides in, arms laden with Sherlock's violin case, a suitcase and a small paper bag. He deposits the suitcase on the floor at Sherlock's feet and sets the violin case and the paper bag on the desk, pushing the latter toward Sherlock.

"Apologies for the delay. Everything you requested from Baker Street," he gestures toward first the case, then the paper bag, "and a few baked goods you didn't."

"You spoke to Mrs. Hudson then."

"Obviously." Mycroft replies, "I explained the general situation, yes."

"How did she take it?"

Mycroft's mouth twists into an even more dower expression than his usual, "I'm not completely sure."

Sherlock mirrors Mycroft's look with an unhappy one of his own, "What do you mean you're not sure? What did she say?"

"Nothing. Not one syllable. She put the biscuits into a bag, forcibly thrust it upon me..."

He trails off seemingly lost in thought, raising his fingers toward his face.

"Well? And then what?" He never has much patience with Mycroft, and has even less when he's high.

Mycroft gives him a puzzled look. "She slapped me."

Sherlock's brow wrinkles, mirroring his brother's puzzled expression, then the corners of his mouth crook into a smile.

"Ironic that a woman who never shuts up would choose to make herself best heard by way of silence," Mycroft pauses to touch his cheek "...and violence. I suppose its satire of a sort, a distressing trend-"

Sherlock cuts him off, "You will look in on her?" It's more a statement than a question and carries more than a hint of accusation. "Let her make you tea. Make sure the Watsons do the same. If it wasn't for Molly Hooper last time-"

Mycroft waves a hand in acquiescence, "Yes, yes, of course. I know how she likes to feel involved."

Sherlock nods and reaches into the bag for a biscuit.

* * *

Author's Note: Thanks to JolieBlack for the suggestion to rework Sherlock's interaction with Anthea. Good call! I think it's much improved.


	4. Between the Two of Us

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay in getting this segment published. I didn't expect this one to fight me like it did. :)

 **Summary:** Where exactly did Sherlock get the drugs he took on the plane if he spent the week prior in custody\solitary confinement? He would have needed a confidant. Set on Christmas Day and just before Sherlock's plane leaves at the end of HLV.

* * *

He should have known. He should have deduced this when he discovered Magnussen's glasses were just ordinary spectacles...

Sherlock stands transfixed, staring into the empty cupboard that should have housed the stairs leading to Appledore's vaults. He's underestimated Magnussen's cunning to disastrous result. He risked the unlikely possibility of an outcome like this, even created a contingency plan for it, and made sure John brought his gun. But he certainly didn't expect everything to go so spectacularly wrong.

He fully intends to honor the vow he made to John and Mary. All that's important now is keeping his friend safe. And it's still possible. But there's a detail to handle first. He just needs a few seconds alone.

"Let's go outside. They'll be here soon. I can't wait to see you both arrested." Magnussen says in his disgustingly smug manner as he heads towards the terrace. In a state of confused shock, John follows, giving Sherlock the precious seconds he needs.

As soon as the other two men are out of sight, Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket, sends Bill Wiggins a quick text, slips the phone back into his coat and joins them outside.

It would be easy to blame Mary's ill-timed presence in Magnussen's office all those months prior, but the truth is he's equally culpable. Between the two of them, he and Mary have managed to botch this whole case.

* * *

It's not exactly the reconciliation Mary hoped for, but at least she and John are talking now. Even if all they've discussed in the past week is the baby and Sherlock, it's something.

John has been consumed with worry for his friend. The meeting they're now headed for may alleviate some of John's immediate concerns, but Mary fears for the worst. Sherlock will leave and she'll be left to pick up the broken pieces once again. At least the baby's arrival will help.

John is silent as the car Mycroft sent for them makes its way to their destination. Mary fights the urge to touch the small package hidden in her coat pocket. John would never forgive her if he knew what she's planning to do. But she couldn't forgive herself if she doesn't do it.

It's ironic that Sherlock entrusted this task to her, as if she's finishing what she started all those months ago in Magnussen's office. One moment of panic, and the ultimate outcome is unavoidable. But she won't send Sherlock off to war unarmed. She knows better than most that every war has it's suicide missions. And make no mistake, it is war where he's going. She just hopes John doesn't realize any of that yet... She hopes Sherlock knows better than to tell him.

She slides her eyes closed and remembers opening the "Christmas gift" Bill Wiggins delivered from Sherlock a few minutes after the drugged tea wore off. Inside the wrapping was a small aluminum tube, like the ones cigars are sold in, and a note with her name on it.

She can still picture the message written in Sherlock's distinctive print. She could almost hear the words rumbling in her ear in his baritone as she read it, committing it to memory before casting it into the fire next to the remains of the flash drive.

 _Mary,_

 _Bring this with you when you see me next. You'll know why and what it means from the contents. Look after John for me._

 _-Sherlock_

The person Mary is now, the person she's become since meeting John Watson, wanted to throw the entire package into the fireplace after opening it. It contained only a pre-filled syringe and another piece of paper detailing the chemical cocktail within.

Instead, she hid it inside her handbag and tried for the first few days to simply ignore it, push it off as the desperate act of an addict trying to ensure his next fix. However, it's obvious from the list of the syringe's contents that's not the case. There's no doubt it's an overdose. Enough to be fatal, even for a frequent user.

Learning of Sherlock's impending exile helped cement the purpose of the package and what he's asked of her. The person she had been before, the assassin, knows it's insurance, his version of a cyanide capsule. She's fairly certain he's being sent to die while doing his duty for Queen and country. If he's lucky, he'll get a well-placed bullet. If not... Death by drug overdose is preferable to slow torture without any hope of extraction.

The person Mary is now, the one whom Sherlock sacrificed himself to free from Magnussen's clammy grip, the one he's bequeathed John Watson to, knows she owes Sherlock this much.

The car pulls into a private airstrip. She can see Sherlock and Mycroft waiting beside a small jet, watching the car approach. The sight confirms all her assumptions.

She puts on a brave face and steps from the car. Best to get on about things and have done with it. She walks straight up to Sherlock and gives him a warm embrace.

"You will look after him for me, won't you?" He asks.

"Don't worry, I'll keep him in trouble."

She feels like Judas as she leans in to kiss his cheek, feels his fingers brush lightly against her coat pocket. This is the task she's been given, it would only make things worse if she balked now.

"That's my girl." He says and with a quick sleight of hand, transfers the contents of her pocket to his own.

Oh God, what has she just done? She's suddenly overwhelmed with remorse. She steps back as John approaches, miserably clasping his hand while she gets her emotions in check. She tells herself it's just her pregnancy hormones playing havoc. She tells herself this is the way it has to be.

As Sherlock and John say their goodbyes, she moves to stand silently next to Mycroft, slipping her hand into her now empty coat pocket. It would be easy to blame Sherlock's ill-timed arrival in Magnussen's office all those months prior, but she knows she's equally culpable. Between the two of them, she and Sherlock have managed to botch this whole case.


	5. When the Devil Drives

**Summary:** If sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side, Sherlock is most decidedly lost.

Takes place at the end of HLV just before the Moriarty broadcast. A little something for the fans who thought they heard Molly in the TAB trailer.

* * *

Sherlock climbs the steps and ducks into the plane, choosing a seat on the opposite side as the door is bolted shut. He has no wish to watch the figures on the tarmac recede as the plane taxis away from them. He's said his goodbyes.

He closes his eyes and fingers the small parcel in his pocket containing the syringe. He's promised himself he wouldn't use it, at least not yet. Not until things get desperate. Not until he's confirmed that Mycroft is right. But he already knows Mycroft is right. Mycroft is always right. The syringe, a carefully planned overdose, is better. It's the only way, really.

"There are always other options. You're a puzzle solver, find one."

His eyes pop open. John is sitting in the seat across from him. But its only a trick of his psyche, the John from his mind palace.

"Go away. You're not real."

"No, but that is." John nods to the mobile phone on the armrest.

"What?" He asks belligerently, "You want me to ring you out there on the tarmac, so you can rush in and play the hero? Save me from myself before I fly off to let someone less qualified kill me?"

"You said yourself heroes don't exist, remember?"

"Of course I remember. What's your point?"

John gives him a patient look. "Maybe all you need is to talk to someone. Hmm? Someone who cares?"

"For God's sake!" he spits back, "Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Don't be an idiot. The first thing either would do is call Mycroft. I've considered all the options. This is the best choice."

"No, it's not. Besides, I wasn't talking about either of them, and you know it. Christ, Sherlock! What made you like this? You need some sense slapped into you. I think you need a doctor."

"I have a doctor!" He bellows in frustration. When he looks back, John is gone.

He glances down at the phone. It's brand new, with an anonymous, untraceable number, a parting gift from Mycroft.

His fingers slide over the glass of the screen as he keys in the number. John is wrong at any rate, ever the army doctor, trying to save a life. Sherlock doesn't want saving, doesn't need saving. Can't be saved. But he doesn't want to be alone right at this moment, either. He wonders briefly if it's fitting or merely ironic to call upon a doctor who specializes in death.

It rings only once. Then Molly's voice fills the cabin, sounding more than a little put out. "Who is this? What do you want?"

Of course she's angry. It's the third time he's dialed her number since he got this phone.

Each time, as soon as she answers, he finds himself unable to speak. Sherlock Holmes, at a loss for words...unbelievable. It's never happened before. He opens his mouth, then wordlessly snaps it shut again.

He's not sure why she keeps answering a number she doesn't recognize only to be met with silence. No matter, even her anger is a comfort.

He wants to tell her what he's done, that he's leaving, to take care of herself, to have a happy life. He wants to tell her to forget him. He shakes his head, finger reaching to end the call, berating himself yet again. Sentiment.

"Why won't you talk to me?" she asks, on the verge of yelling, and maybe tears, "I demand you speak! Who are you?"

He pauses, fingers curling above the screen. He doesn't speak. Nothing he could say would make any difference.

Jim Moriary thought him on the side of the angels, and for a time he might have been. Still, he never was one, far from it. But Molly... Just like John, she's always stood by him, even when he's disparaged her, or worse, ignored her. She's always done what was best for him, provided whatever he needed, even though he didn't reciprocate. She's always seen the best in him. She truly is an angel, or likely as close to one as he's ever going to know.

After a second, she speaks again, her voice suddenly softer and tinged with fear.

"Sherlock? It's you, isn't it?" she asks. "Please, talk to me."

That startles him. But then she always did see him, see right through him, didn't she?

It's almost a plea now, "Please, Sherlock. What do you-" He taps the screen with more force than is necessary, ending the call. She can't help him now. No one can.

The engines roar to life and the plane picks up speed, racing down the runway, away from everything and everyone he's ever dared to care about.

He tucks the angel safely away in one pocket and pulls the syringe from the other. Time to let the devil drive...


End file.
